Farewell to Senchal
by resapocrypha
Summary: In 7E335, a revolution led by the Army of Tomorrow throws Elsweyr into chaos and bloodshed. Many Khajiit flee for Cyrodiil, expecting the Tomorrowist leader Ri'zhemi-do to be overthrown in a matter of months. Twelve years later, however, a civil war is still raging, Zhemian forces still hold the capital Senchal, and the refugees still struggle to adapt to life in Cyrodiil.
1. Prologue--Senchal of Many Colors

_18th of Evening Star, 7E 335, Senchal_

"Quick, quick!" An Imperial man was shouting, in heavily accented Ta'agra, trying to be heard over the din of the airship's mechanisms, "Get on board!", as the last few people on the ground climbed the staircase.

Meanwhile, Janiaani-ma was staring at her hometown from the deck. Senchal, capital of the Elsweyr Union. Senchal of the thousand stalls full of postcards, Senchal of the old monuments, Senchal of the ivory beaches, Senchal of the many colors. Her grandfather often had repeated to the Ohmesi-raht child how lucky she'd been to be born amidst such beauty—a beauty Jani was losing that day, perhaps forever.

"Be strong, _ma_, Cyrodiil is going to help us defeat the Army of Tomorrow. We'll stay in Leyawiin for a few months, a year at most... By your eleventh birthday we'll be back, I promise." Janiaani-ma's uncle Ja'mijali whispered, "And we'll see our family again." The young Cathay, despite his authoritative title in regards to the girl, was only a few years older than her, a fact of which Jani had never been more painfully aware. The Scrib Visa, an expedited visa to league territory, didn't take anyone older than fifteen. Ja-mijali had barely made it-his sixteenth birthday would fall in three weeks' time. There was no more time for a more elaborate visa: the civil war had abruptly turned into the AoT's favor a few months prior, and the two youths' family was known for its royalist stance. At best they would be jailed. At best. Hopefully the League would reconquer it, or at least find a way to overthrow Ri'zhemi-do. And in a few months Jani would embrace her mother again... But what if the league didn't succeed? What if her parents were executed before she could return? _What if she never returned?_ Jani tried to forbid herself from thinking such nonsense.

She looked at the ship's occupants to distract herself. A few wealthy businessmen were huddled together in a group, talking about work even in those circumstances. Nobles were clinging onto each other as well as to their wounded pride. There were many—too many—Scrib kids, alone and lost like Jani and Ja'Mijali. There were the lucky ones—whole families who at least had each other. But was there anyone in there who was lucky? For in that airship, count, trader, and cook were alike in their grief for their impending exile. A middle-aged woman was loudly protesting League policies: "Can't Cyrodiil fight with its own soldiers? Do they have to take advantage of us? Wasn't it enough to not do anything when Zhemi's forces started attacking?" A somewhat pudgy Ohmesi boy around Jani's age was comforting his kitten sister, who was weeping in his arms, while looking at his mother. An Alfiqi man and his Pahmari-raht bride were at the ship's bow, kissing, still in their wedding attire. It would have been a highly amusing scene in any other situation, but now Jani could only admire the couple's determination to marry in their homeland. Two children, both of them Tojays, played tag, unaware of the circumstances, or choosing to ignore them.

"Hello," The young Ohmes-the one with the baby sister-greeted Jani, "What's your name?"

"Janiaan-ma, but I normally go by Jani."

"Athahimanizhar-ma. Athi. Are you..."

"A Scrib kid, yes."

"I'm sorry."

"How old are you, Athi?"

"Eleven. Almost twelve."

"Ten."

"What do you think Cyrodiil will be like?"

"Who knows."

"Shhh! The captain is speaking!"

"Ladies and gentlemen," An amplified voice began, "This is Captain Julie Bellemer speaking. You are aboard Tamair Flight S1, Senchal to Leyawiin. You are in League territory from this moment onwards, and the League's laws and customs will apply." Cheering welcomed that last sentence, "We shall depart momentarily. Good travels."

The airship's two balloons rose, and its wing-paddles started moving. A woman's cry broke the silence. Jani and Athi watched, as the airship rose and Senchal of the many colors bcame smaller, and smaller, and smaller.


	2. Chapter 1--Midyear Morning in Old Town

_16__th__ of Midyear, 7E347_

_Leyawiin_

**(Narrated by Jani—I feel like a 1****st**** person point of view will be a **_**lot**_** less awkward from now on)**

It was but five and a half in the morning, but I could see from the window that the streets of Leyawiin were already bustling. Locals and tourists alike flooded the paved roads of the Old Town, too small to contain the massive stream of people. I couldn't recall that much chaos any other Midyear Festival—the economic recovery in Cyrodiil and the rest of the Pan-Tamrielic League was showing. Good. Better business for the Mazenji clan. Azurah knew how much we needed it. Our house—like most of Old Town's houses—had been built at the Era's dawn, and let me tell you—that much was obvious. We'd been rained in through most of the spring, and although the leak had been patched up, I could already see cracks in the walls. At that rate, I wouldn't have been surprised if the roof caved in someday. Still, _dov'kono eja sarefi saniir_, never whine about a gift. A roof over my head was a roof over my head, and the clan had been kindly enough to essentially adopt me (in light of my friendship with their son Athi) after I stopped being covered by the Scrib program and wound up—like many fellow Scrib Kids—without a house nor a martin to my name. You see, there were two categories of Khajiiti refugees: the nobility and bourgeoisie that fled with their money intact, and who now took up the districts of Little Senchal and Little Rim'kha; and the middle- and working-class (most often military) families and Scrib Kids who struggled to make ends meet in Cyrodiil and lived in the Old Town or in the Pelagius and Mede districts. The fairly recent Mede District, especially, had a nasty reputation as a skooma hub and a slum where you'd be lucky to walk away from without being robbed blind, or worse. Pelagius and Old Town, instead, weren't so bad—they were older districts with enough touristic landmarks for the guards to keep them clean. Cutpurses were nothing new (it _was _a Khajiiti area, and no matter how Cyrodized we have become, there's still some of the old days in our culture), but you could walk around without risking a knife or a lightning-gun bolt between your shoulder blades. The Pelagius District, in particular, had been recently improved: it was to host the Pan-Tamrielic Fair the following year, along with the mainly Cyrodi Tiber District, and couldn't look run-down. The new monorail's building site was visible all the way from our house.

Old Town, meanwhile, was officially the old walled city (Upper Old Town) and the early Fifth Era zone around it (Lower Old Town). In practice, it was just the latter, as most of the former had been preserved as a museum and university (the largest university of the humanities outside of Resdayn): virtually everyone there was a museum curator, a faculty member, or a student—plus a few well-off people, most of whom were Cyrods. Lower Old Town was the real district. It had been founded by Julian II of the Antesi dynasty in 5E150, and the circular main street running through it still bore his name. The oldest houses still standing—barring the First House Museum—dated back to Empress Anna V the General's reign in the mid-5E700s, therefore being about five hundred years old. The vast majority had been built between the Failed Era and 7E200. When we'd moved in, next to nobody cared about the near-crumbling houses that made up the bulk of the district. People were moving away in droves. And then we Khajiit came in and turned Lower Old Town into a slice of Elsweyr within Cyrodiil. We repaired the houses, reopened the stores, and brought in our festivals and customs.

Speaking of festivals, I had to get ready for a long day: the morning was to be spent at our food stall; and in the afternoon, Athi and I were to meet up with our band to play at Ann Marie Gorathe Square. Midyear Festival was an amazing occasion even for people like us who had to work the whole day, because of how much of a break from the routine it was. Thirteen-year-old Mashari-ma was still asleep, curled up on a pillow. Lucky her, too young to work at the stall. Athi was probably already running errands—roller-skating them, if I knew him. Dra'Taathini (Mother Mazenji, and one of the greatest cooks in Leyawiin) was downstairs, cooking—sweet rice cakes, judging by the smell. That was one of her strongest dishes. Most people used naturally sweet Akaviri rice to make them. She still used saltrice, washing it repeatedly over the course of two days to rid it of the saltiness. Then she would dry it and crush it before soaking it in heavily sugared ale overnight. After that, she'd make little discs from the mixture and fry them. Vahtos-ja, the eldest of the three siblings, was probably helping his mother in the kitchen, as he had inherited her talent. Dro'Rathron, the family's father and a local handyman, was probably already busy setting up the stall in Julian II Street.

"Hello! Doorbell broke again, could you please open the door?" Athi's voice called from below the window.

"Alright!" I went to the door, making a mental note to remember to repair the wretched doorbell.

"Thanks!" My friend grinned after I'd let him in. Then he smelled the air and rolled his eyes. I knew what was coming next, "Mom!"

"Yes?"

"I can still smell the kollopi stew! Not even that Nordic ale's smell can cover the spices in it." He'd slimmed down considerably since he'd taken up roller skating, to the point that his mother (like every self-respecting Khajiiti mother) had begun preparing his favorite dishes with _extremely _suspicious regularity.

"_Jor, _you _need _to eat."

"I'm not starving."

"You've **lost** _tens _of pounds!"

"Thirty-five, but it's a good thing. I was fat!"

"There's not only two extremes… you're so _thin_, your face looks like a **skull**! I won't let my **son** _waste_ away like **that**!"

"I'm twenty-three years old! I can decide what and how much to eat!"

At that I decided that getting ready for the day would be a more productive use of my time than hearing yet another overdramatic bicker about food.


End file.
